the end will come (and wash it all away)
by shineyma
Summary: A collection of drabbles relating to "erase myself and let go (start it over again)". Chapter two: Sooner or later, Skye had to be told that they were married.
1. At the Playground

A/N: First of all, I know I still owe a lot of review responses. I'm the worst, I'm so sorry. But we're wrapping up the semester (I have two exams and a final project left), so I'm kind of lacking in free time lately. And the free time I do have I've been, as you can see, using to write. I'll respond to your comments ASAP, I promise.

Second, there was some discussion of Grant and Jemma's wedding rings on my tumblr, which spawned a prompt from anonymous, who said: "I'd really love to see (from erase myself) Coulson taking Ward's ring away and/or giving it to Jemma." And thus, this fic is born.

Third, the title comes from "Fade Away" by Breaking Benjamin.

Fourth and finally, the lovely, talented sapphireglyphs made a gorgeous edit for _erase myself_, and you should absolutely go check it out (sapphireglyphs . tumblr dotcom/ post/104339096351/erase-myself-and-let-go-start-it-over-again) and leave her lots of praise, because it is _spectacular_.

Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review.

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><p>Once greetings and hugs and reassurances have been exchanged, Jemma excuses herself from the rest of the team to return to Fitz's side. She knows she'll have to give Coulson a report on everything that happened sooner or later (and she'll need to be briefed on <em>their <em>mission, as well), but she's simply not capable of it. Not yet.

Fitz is still in a coma, and it's driving her slowly mad. The scans that Director Fury's doctors ran on him showed damage to his temporal lobe, but until he wakes, there's no way to know how badly the damage will affect him. And there's no way to wake him, either. All there is to do is _wait_.

She spends the six hours immediately following the team's arrival the same way she's spent the day and a half preceding it: sitting next to Fitz's bed. Sometimes she speaks to him, chattering on about whatever comes to mind, doing her best to sound as cheerful (as _normal_) as possible. Most of the time, however, she simply sits there and holds his hand. Speaking is just too hard, right now.

The sole remaining doctor, an Agent Wilkins (who says she'll be leaving just as soon as Fitz is awake), tries more than once to shoo Jemma away—to get some sleep, or to eat something, at least—but she always refuses. She won't leave Fitz's side. Not when he's unconscious and vulnerable with no one but a strange doctor to watch over him.

Furthermore, she knows she won't be able to eat anything. Even the _thought_ of food is enough to make her feel ill. And while she would unquestionably be able to _fall_ asleep—as it happens, she's having severe difficulty keeping her eyes open—she rather doubts that she would stay that way. Nightmares are a certainty, and she can't bear to face them. Not yet. Not while Fitz is still in the balance.

On top of that, by leaving Fitz's room she would run the risk of encountering Agent Koenig, and _that_ is something she can't let happen. She can't look at him without seeing his dead brother. Every time she lays eyes on him, she flashes back to finding Eric in that vent—to performing a post-mortem (as best she could, at least; she's really not _that_ sort of doctor) and realizing the only possible answer to the question of who killed him.

Every time she sees Billy Koenig, she can't stop herself from imagining the death of his brother. She wasn't there, obviously, but you'd never know it, by the vivid pictures of the scene her mind paints (entirely against her will). It's just one more thing to mourn, one more pain piled on an already unbelievably high stack of them, and she can't face it. She just can't.

So she ignores Agent Wilkins' entreaties to leave the room, to sleep or eat or stretch her legs. She sits and holds Fitz's hand, sometimes speaks, and always does her very, very best not to think about everything that's happened—or what might happen next.

Six hours after the team's arrival, Coulson knocks lightly on the door. Jemma, startled out of her unblinking watch of the monitors surrounding Fitz, jumps to her feet.

"Sir," she says. "Is everything—?"

"Everything's fine, Jemma," he says gently. "But there's something we need to talk about."

"What sort of thing?" she asks warily. The fact that he's begun the conversation by addressing her by her first name is really not an encouraging sign.

Coulson glances at Fitz. "Can we talk in the hall for a minute?"

"We can talk here," she tells him. Despite her best efforts to sound cheerful, her voice wavers a little as she continues, "It won't disturb him."

"Yeah, but they say coma patients can hear what's going on around them, right?" Coulson asks, kindly ignoring her moment of weakness. "I think this is really something you should share with him in your own time."

Whether coma patients actually _are_ aware of what's happening around them while they're unconscious is a matter of some debate, and she's about to tell Coulson so when she abruptly changes her mind. She glances back at the monitors surrounding Fitz. Nothing has changed in the last three minutes—just as nothing has changed in the last forty-some hours.

Maybe a moment away from this sight—from Fitz so still and so pale, surrounded by machines and monitors which are made all the more frightening for the fact that she knows _exactly_ what they're for—would do her some good.

"Very well," she agrees reluctantly.

She walks around the end of the bed and, after a final glance at Fitz, follows Coulson out into the hallway. She leaves the door cracked open, just a touch, so she'll be able to hear any change in the steady beeping that marks his heartbeat.

"We're going to need to hold a full debrief later," Coulson says without preamble. "A lot happened—to all of us—while we were separated. But most of that can wait." He slips his hands into his pockets, looking uncomfortable. "There's just one thing that can't."

"And what's that?" she asks.

He hesitates, and something about the look on his face sends a chill up her spine. She crosses her arms over her chest and waits.

"There's no easy way to say this," he says. "But…we caught Ward."

Even though she was fairly certain that that was where this was going, the words still hit her hard. She digs her nails into her arms and can't stop herself from glancing back through the window, into Fitz's room.

He's fine. Nothing's changed.

She has to swallow twice before she can speak. "Oh?"

"May took him down," he continues, removing his hands from his pockets in favor of folding them in front of him. "And we brought him in."

Something about his phrasing causes the knot in her chest to tighten. He can't mean what she thinks he means. He simply _can't_.

She has to ask.

"When you say _brought him in_…?"

"He's here," Coulson confirms. His voice is soft and apologetic, and somehow that makes it even worse. "There's a cell in the basement—Vault D. We're going to be keeping him there."

She feels oddly cold, all of a sudden. She uncrosses and recrosses her arms, holding them a little more tightly against her chest, and tries to ignore Coulson's horribly sympathetic expression.

"You said May took him down," she says. She doesn't want to ask, but she can't not. Even now, even after everything, she can't—she can't not. "Does he need—?"

"He's been treated already," Coulson interrupts, kindly. He takes a step closer. "I want to assure you, Simmons. The cell he's in is completely secure. It's impenetrable."

"Is it?" she asks before she can stop herself.

"It is," he says. "The only way he's leaving that cell is in a body bag. I promise."

She presses her lips together and looks back through the window again. (Fitz is fine. Nothing's changed.) Despite everything, she can't bring herself to wish Grant—Ward—dead. Even looking at Fitz—even with her head still pounding—even with her breath still short in her chest, her mind telling her that she might run out of oxygen at any moment…She can't wish him dead.

There's been enough death already.

She opens her mouth to ask—something, anything. Whatever will get them off of this topic—but doesn't have the chance.

"Director Coulson!" one of the Playground agents (she hasn't learnt their names, as yet) calls from down the corridor.

"Yeah, be there in a sec," Coulson says, as Jemma blinks at him.

"Director?" she asks, stunned.

"Like I said." He smiles ruefully. "A lot happened." He takes a deep breath. "The rest of this can wait. I just wanted to tell you about Ward before you heard it from someone else. And…"

"And?" she prompts, after a few seconds.

"And I wanted to give you this," he finishes, somewhat apologetically. He slips one hand into his pocket, and when he draws it back out, he's holding a very familiar ring.

The sight of it knocks the breath right of her, and a small, distressed sound escapes her with it.

"We can't let him keep it," he says, holding it out. "Even a ring can be a weapon. But I thought what happens to it should be up to you."

She stares at the offered ring for a long moment. She's thinking—she doesn't know what she's thinking. She's remembering picking it out, visiting jewelry store after jewelry store after jewelry store in the months after he proposed, trying to find the _perfect_ rings, because it had to be a matched set (they would accept nothing less). She's remembering the day she slipped it on his finger, the small ceremony in her parents' back garden, the uncharacteristically wide smile he wore all day and his unusual patience with her various relatives, who kept pestering him with questions and admiration and _hugs_.

She's remembering all of the times he came back from an op, how the first thing he would do was ask for his ring back. She's remembering him handing it over every time he left—remembering promising to keep it safe until he got back, as long as he promised to do the same with himself.

She's remembering that she vowed to love and honor a serial killer.

"Simmons?" Coulson prompts gently.

"Yes," she says, hoarsely. She swallows again and holds out her hand to accept the ring. "I'll—I'll take care of it. Thank you."

"Sure," Coulson says, dropping the ring into her hand.

She stares down at it, unsure of what to feel. Her stomach is still tied in knots, as it has been for—however long it's been since she realized that her husband was a murderer—and her heart is in her throat. She thinks that she might cry or shout or throw the ring into the nearest bin…but all she can do is stand there and stare at it.

Coulson puts his hand on her shoulder and squeezes it firmly. She tears her eyes away from the ring to look at him, and he squeezes her shoulder again.

"Simmons," he says. "You're gonna be fine."

It sounds more like an order than reassurance, and she finds it strangely comforting. She nods once.

"Of course, sir," she agrees.

Coulson nods in return, squeezes her shoulder once more, and then walks away. She waits until he disappears around the corner with the agent who was calling for him, then slips back into Fitz's room.

She checks the monitors—he's fine. Nothing's changed. Then she just stands there, at the end of his bed, watching the slow (far too slow) rise and fall of his chest. It's been nearly two days since they were brought to this base, and he still shows no signs of waking.

He looks so small. He's so quiet. Fitz isn't supposed to be quiet. He's supposed to be _loud_, challenging her and fighting her and making her laugh when she needs it. He's supposed to draw her out of her thoughts, as she draws him out of his. He's supposed to be standing beside her, helping her make her ideas reality, offering ideas of his own to try.

He's not supposed to be silent and still and unresponsive. Not when she needs him the most.

After a moment, she becomes aware of a stinging sensation, and looks down. She's clenching her fist around the ring she's holding, and her nails are digging into her skin painfully. She relaxes her hand, opens it to reveal the ring inside.

She stares at it for a long moment. It blurs a bit as her eyes fill with tears, and she closes them until she's sure she's got herself under control. Then she opens them, takes a deep breath, and slips the ring into her pocket as she walks around Fitz's bed to retake her seat.

She settles into it and takes his hand again.

She hasn't the time for crying.

Not yet.


	2. On the Bus

A/N: I wasn't intending to turn this into a drabble collection, but I currently have four other prompts for this verse sitting in my inbox, so...Here we are!

Anonymous said: "If you're accepting verse-specific prompts, I would looooove to see the moment Skye found out that Jemma and Ward are married in the erase myself verse."

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><p>It's been fifteen minutes since they took off, and Jemma's heart is still in her throat.<p>

She knew, of course, that joining a field team would invite an element of danger into her life. Grant and Fitz both had plenty to say on the subject, albeit in two entirely different ways, and even if they hadn't, Jemma is a legitimate genius who has spent three years married to a specialist. She knows perfectly well that field work is perilous.

Still, it's one thing to know it and an entirely different thing to be _shot at_.

And, as if the bullets and explosions weren't enough, there's the matter of the 0-8-4. They didn't have time, in the temple, for any substantial testing, but they did determine that it's highly reactive and also fueled by Tesseract technology, which is _not_ a good combination. There's no telling what might set it off, or what might happen if it _is_ set off—a frightening prospect, considering the fact that they're currently cruising at 35,000 feet about sea level.

All in all, Jemma doesn't think she can be blamed for the way she rambles to (or at, rather) Skye as she removes the 0-8-4 from its not at all secure transport container. (Duffle bag. It's a duffle bag. They took a potentially explosive object of unknown origin on a car chase through the jungle, whilst being _shot at_, in a duffle bag.)

"At first it's…_very_ unpleasant," she says, speaking as much to herself as to Skye. "And you regret your decision to leave the lab at all—"

She's interrupted by the return of Fitz, who went back into the storage area to fetch some of their more delicate equipment, and Grant, who didn't _actually_ give a reason for disappearing earlier. It strikes her, suddenly, as rather out of character that he left without a word of explanation when their plane is full of highly-trained strangers, and she narrows her eyes at him.

Before she can speak, however, he leans against the lab table and pins first her, then Fitz, with a serious look.

"Jemma," he says. "Fitz. Do you two remember what we talked about before we started this assignment?"

She and Fitz exchange looks, then shrug.

"We talked about a lot," Fitz points out.

"You're going to have to be more specific," Jemma agrees. A thought occurs to her, and she frowns. "Is this about the gun thing? Because I think—"

"It's not about the gun thing," Grant interrupts. "You guys did well, following my orders while we were in danger—although opening the window wasn't a great idea, Jem."

She nods, a touch sheepishly. In retrospect, it _was_ rather foolish of her.

"No," he continues. "This is about the science thing."

Now that he mentions it, Jemma _does_ recall a specific conversation they held a few weeks ago about their differing levels of education and the necessity of brevity in the field.

"Oh," she says.

"Right," Fitz says.

"You know I'm always happy to hear you talk science," he says, mostly to her. "But in the field, I need the Reader's Digest version."

"We remember," she says. "Sorry, darling."

"Won't happen again," Fitz agrees. "Although, I still say, a few courses in physics—"

"Or chemistry," she supplies brightly.

"Sure," Grant says dryly. "I'll get right on it. Just as soon as you two sign up for a PT course."

Jemma gives Fitz a sideways look, and can tell that they're thinking the same thing.

"Reader's Digest it is," she says.

"We'll stick with the basics," Fitz nods.

"That's all I ask," Grant says, and starts to push away from the table.

"I'm sorry," Skye says suddenly, and all eyes go to her. She's been so quiet, Jemma almost forgot she was there. "Was I hallucinating, or did you just call Ward _darling_?"

"I did," Jemma confirms slowly. "Is something wrong?"

"Wrong?" Skye asks, and flails a hand a little wildly in Grant's direction. "_Why_ would you call him a pet name?"

"No one told you," she realizes, and looks to Grant. He's leaning against the table again, watching Skye with what can only be described as a smugly amused expression. It's not a particular surprise; she knows he doesn't like Skye—although, to be fair, he's barely given her a chance. (Jemma, on the other hand, rather enjoys what she's seen of Skye. She thinks they're going to be very good friends.)

"Told me what?" Skye demands, still looking somewhat disturbed.

"We're married," Grant says flatly, before Jemma can answer.

"Married?" Skye says incredulously. "Seriously?"

"Yes," she says, and frowns. "Why wouldn't we be?"

"But you're so…you," Skye says. "And Ward's so…Ward."

"It was a shock to us all," Fitz says gravely, and Jemma rolls her eyes. "But Ward's not so bad once you get to know him."

An incredible understatement. Fitz and Grant, despite a rocky start, were the best of friends by the time Grant proposed to her. They do tend to needle on another, but it's all in good fun.

"Thanks, Fitz," Grant says wryly. "And, now that that's been established, I've got some work to do, so…"

As he starts to push away from the table, however, her eyes catch on a flash of red on his side. It stands out starkly against his white shirt, and for a moment she stares at it, confused. Then she realizes what it must be, and hurries around the lab table to intercept him on his way to the door.

"Grant!" she exclaims. "You're bleeding! Did you get shot?"

He catches her wrists as she reaches for his shirt. "It's just a graze."

"I'll be the judge of that, thank you," she says, and pulls out of his grip. She crosses her arms and glares up at him. "Shirt. Off."

"Jemma—"

"Don't _Jemma_ me," she says. "As I recall, we've _also_ talked about you getting shot. The gist of which conversation was _don't do it_!"

Grant sighs and shrugs off his jacket, then tugs his shirt up a bit to show her his side. There's a patch of gauze taped neatly over what she presumes is his wound—which explains his earlier disappearing act, and they'll certainly be having words about _that_, as well—and she peels it back carefully.

It is, in fact, just a simple graze, and he treated it well. Still, she tuts a little as she replaces the gauze, and she may press it down a touch more firmly than is strictly necessary.

"See?" he says. "Told you."

"You still should have come to me," she scolds. "I'm the closest thing we've got to a team medic. It's my job to treat you when you're injured."

"Is it?" he asks as he pulls his jacket back on. "Because I seem to remember some words about _not_ patching me up when my own stupidity got the best of me."

"That was once and you deserved it," she says, and gives him a little shove. "But—really, Grant."

"All right," he says, and takes a step back before she can shove him again. "I promise to come to you with every injury I get." He pauses. "Even when it _is_ just a scratch."

"That's all I ask," she says sweetly, secure in her victory. She'll save the debate about what constitutes a _scratch_ for another day; the battle to convince Grant to take his own well-being seriously is an on-going one.

"Simmons," Fitz says. "The 0-8-4?"

"Oh," she says. "Right. We should see to that."

"Go ahead," Grant says, and leans down to kiss her briefly. "I'll be upstairs."

"Keeping an eye on our guests?" she guesses, as he turns away.

"Something like that," he agrees over his shoulder.

Jemma turns back to the lab table to find that Skye is still standing at the end of it, looking even more disturbed.

"Seriously?" she asks. "You're not just messing with me? Hazing the rookie?"

"Seriously," Jemma says. "We are genuinely married."

"Because if you _are_ just messing with me, you totally got me and it's funny," Skye continues. "But there comes a time to admit that it was just a prank and move on, you know?"

"It's not a prank."

"Dragging out a joke for too long makes it not funny anymore," Skye persists.

Jemma sighs and casts a glare at Fitz, who is enjoying this _far_ too much. He grins, unashamed.

"And, I mean, there is such a thing as being _too_ crazy to believe. If you're gonna play a prank, it has to be at least a _little_ plausible."

Something tells her this is going to be a long night.


End file.
